
Class "K'g.asB'y 

Book di 



r»^ 



THE MARINES 

AND OTHER WAR VERSE 



BY 
ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE 



nM 



Ube Iknicfterbocfeer ipress 

NEW YORK 

1919 



XLo 
E. C. S. 



CONTENTS 






PAGE 


*The Marines 




9 


*HoROo! 




II 


♦On His Own 




. 13 


*Eyes for the Army . 




. 16 


*WiTH Stop-Gap Carey 




• 19 


♦Overheard in a Hangar 




21 


*His Star . 




• 23 


♦Tiffin Talk 




26 


♦The Foreign Legion . 




. 28 


♦A Dugout Symposium 




• 30 


*A Letter from the Front 




• 33 


♦A Bit of Bluest Heaven 




35 


♦The Red Cross Roll Call 


• 37 


The Fourth in Paris . 

New York Herald, illustrated. 


39 


A Wayside in France 

New York Herald, illustrated. 


• 42 


MacArthur of the Gordon 
New York Herald, illustrat 


s 
ed. 

18. 


44 


♦Issued by The Vigilantes, 19 




[5] 









PAGE 


Les Blesses , . . . . 


• 47 


American Golfer, December, 19 17. 




Sergeant Brown. 


• 51 


Nenette and Rintintin 


• 53 


Bastille Day, July 14, 191 8 


■ 56 


War Dogs 


• 59 


Why Worry? .... 


• 63 


CoEUR de Lion 


. 64 


Homeward Bound 


• 65 


With the Allies 


68 


American Golfer, November, 19 14 




Somewhere 


74 


My Pal Francois 


76 


The Smoked Yankees 


. . 78 


"Smiles" 


. 8l 


Are We Downhearted? 


. 86 


The Gap in the Line 


. 88 



[6] 



THE MARINES 



THE MARINES 

"Pardon! he has no Engleesh, heem, 

II ne parle que frangais; 
I spik it leetle some, monsieur, 

Vaire bad, j'en suis fache — 
Marines? Mais oui ! I fight wiz zem 

At Chateau Thierry 
An' on ze Ourcq an' Marne in grande 

Bonne camaraderie. 
I see zem fight at Bois Belleau, 

Like sauvage make ze yell, — 
Sacre nom de Dieu ! zoze sailor man 

Eez fightin' like ze hell ! 
All time zey smile when make ze push, 

Magnifique zaire elan, 
Zey show ze heart of lion 

For delight our brav Franchman. 
An' in ze tranch at rest, zoze troop 

From ze Etats Unis 
Queeck make ze good frien' of poilu 

Wiz beeg slap on ze knee ! 
Zey make ze song an' joke, si drole. 

An' pass ze cigarette; 
[9] 



Zey call us goddam good ol' scout 

Like Marquis La Fayette. 
Next day, mebbee, again ze taps, — 

Ze volley in ze air; — 
Adieu ! some fightin' sailor man 

Eez gone West. C'est la guerre! 
No more ze smile, ze hug, ze hand 

Queeck wiz ze cigarette; 
C'est vrai, at funerall of heem 

Ze poilu's eye eez wet. 
But, every day like tidal wave, — 

Like human avalanche, — 
Ze transport bring more Yankee troop, 

To get ze beeg revanche ! 
Zen from ze heart Americain 

Come milliards of monnaie; 
Eet eez ze end ! Your countree bring 

Triomphante liberte. 
So, au revoir ! I mus' go on. 

But first I tell to yo' 
What some high Officier remark 

Zat day at Bois Belleau: 
He say, our great Napoleon 

Wiz envy would turn green 
Eef he could see zoze sailor man, — 

Zoze Oncle Sam Marines!" 



10 



HOROO! 

The stretcher-bearers had just brought them 

in; 
It looked like a message to "next of kin" 
For Private O'Leary and Private O'Flynn, — 

But the Surgeon said 

"They'll be all right! 

These Irish are tougher than Billy-be-damned, 
For they can be everlastingly lammed, 
Shot up or cut up or blown up or rammed 

And they're back again soon 

For more fight!" 

Moaned O'Leary, "Mike, man, how do you 

feel? 
Fm mashed to a jelly, me head's in a reel, — 
'Twas beautiful though whin we stuck 'em 
widstheel, 

But I missed a sthroke 
Seein' you fall." 
[11] 



Groaned Mike, "Ivery bone in me body is 

broke, 
A squad o' thim Fritzies all gave me a soak; 
'Twas a hell ov a fight ! Sure that's no joke. 

But — it's betther than 

No fight at all!" 



[I2l 



ON HIS OWN 

"You see that young kid lying there 

Playing a game of solitaire? 

All shot to pieces in the air; 

By Heck, Sarge, he's a wonder. 

The gamest lad I ever met ; 

They're probing him for bullets yet, 

But s — sh ! here comes his nurse Yvette, — 

Kept him from going under. 

"You think she's passing by him? Nit! 
D'you get that smile? He waves his mitt; 
I think he's stuck on her a bit, 
Can't blame him for that matter. 
She watches him just like a hawk, 
Now listen to their daily talk, 
She's all Paree, he's all New York; 
Sit quiet, hear their chatter." 

" Pardonnez-moi, desirez-vous — " 
"Oh, fine and dandy! How are you?" 
* ' Quel que chose ? Comprenez-vous ? — ' ' 
[13] 



"Ah, now I know you're kiddin'." 
" Vous avez bonne mine aujourd'hui — " 
"It's high time you were nice to me." 
"Time? Je comprends, il est midi — " 
"Bright eyes, I think I'm skiddin'." 

" Je crois que je vous donnerai — " 
"I'll back up anything you say — " 
"Un petit morceau de poulet — " 
"You fascinating creature!" 
"Avec la creme, dans la coquille, — " 
"Rats! There she goes! I always feel 
Some blessy's S. O. S. appeal 
Will call off my French teacher." 

* ' The Sarge here nudged my splintered ribs : 
'Well, I'll be damned! Here comes His 

Nibs. ' 
And down the aisle stalked General Gibbs 
With all the famous aces. 
They formed around the sick boy's bed, 
He gasped, saluted, then turned red : 
'Looks like I'm pinched!' was all he said, 
Scanning their smiling faces. 

"'So,' spoke the General, 'you alone 
Brought down three Taubes on your own ! 
Another Yankee Ace is known 
[14] 



To everyone in Blighty. 
I'm proud to know you, — put it there,- 
And now we're going to let you wear 
This gallantly won Croix de Guerre 
I'm pinning on your nighty.' " 



[15] 



EYES FOR THE ARMY 

Everyone who owns a field-glass is asked to forward 
it to Franklin Roosevelt, Naval Observatory, Wash- 
ington, D. C. — Exchange, April, 1918. 

Farewell my old binoculars 
Snug in your well-worn case, 
Aye ! since the days of Jerome Park 
We've seldom missed a race. 
Gone now the days when you and I 
Would watch our "one best bet" 
Get left fiat-footed at the post, — 
I see them running yet ! 
You've seen my patrimony fade 
And my stiff upper lip 
Grow tremulous from dalliance with 
The stire diurnal tip. 
Mayhap this parting with our "lamps" 
May bring surcease to some 
Whose coin like mine is near the 
Irreducible minimum. 
Without you now, the racing game 
[ 16] 



Looks drab and drear and dark; 

Vale! Jamaica, Aqueduct, 

And eke fair Belmont Park! 

For now I've sent you, — Lord knows where,- 

Because I know I should; 

Could I but share your adventure, — 

I wish to Heaven I could 

But adolescence; golden youth; 

The fires of yesteryear; — 

Gone glimmering with the auld lang syne, 

That's why I must stay here. 

Atone then for our empty days, 

Otir futile hours of ease 

And take this message with you 

To our comrades overseas: 

Stand fast, you war-worn allies, with 

Your "backs against the wall, " 

Can't you hear the tramp of millions ? 

We've heard your bugle call. 

The Almighty may forgive us 

For our apathetic start. 

But now America sees red, — 

Fear not ! She'll do her part. 

We'll send our blood and treasure for 

The death grip just begun 

To rid the world of hellish spawn, — 

The execrated Hun. 

[17] 



On guard, then, with your lenses bright 
And furnish "eyes" to see 
The last swath of spiked helmets mowed 
In shell-torn Picardy. 



[i8] 



WITH STOP-GAP CAREY 

"They wus mostly cooks an' teamsters 

As made up our misfit crew 
That followed Stop-Gap Carey, — 

But not a Boche got through. 
That stand promoted Carey 

From the ranks o' Brigadiers 
An' that's where I met that daffy bunch 

O' Yankee Engineers. 
A 'andful o' those bridge men 

'Ummin' some old college song 
Wuz a fixin' up a causeway 

When our pick-ups rushed along. 
They sensed wot wuz a-doin' — 

Their Lieutenant yelled: 'Hey, Bo! 
If you'll let us in the picture 

We'll kick in this movie show. 
Can you swap some guns for shovels? 

Never mind ! Fall in there, boys ! 
Grab those crowbars and short canthooks, 

Let's join in with the big noise!' 
[19] 



" I wuz near that young Lieutenant 

When the Fritzies tried our trench, 
'E'd used up 'is automatic 

An' 'e swung a Stillson wrench. 
No baynit seemed to reach 'im 

As 'e smashed on through the line, 
An' 'is mates with picks an' shovels 

Wuz a-backin' of 'im fine. 
'E wuz champion, that 'e wuz, 

A bonnie sight to see. 
An' 'e kept chantin' 'Here's your jam 

And there's your dish o' tea ! ' 

" 'E said to me next mornin', 

' Lloyd George, I like your map ! 
You're all Ai merino 

And a yard wide in a scrap ! 
Come spend a week-end with us 

H you like Westphalia ham, — 
At our shooting-box for schweinhunds 

Called Sans Souci near Potsdam.' 
With that, they went back to their job. 

Their laughter in the breeze, — 
But oo can understand their talk? 

It's worse than Senegalese." 



OVERHEARD IN A HANGAR 

I LIKE my job, to hang around 
And tune up motors on the ground — 
Give 'em that smooth old purring sound 
And start them off a-screeching. 
The job has done me good, I think, 
Leastwise, my doubts are on the blink — 
I'm getting pretty near the brinl<: 
Where I'll believe in preaching. 

Take young Jim's case. He flew, back home, 
Then came here, where they cut his comb; 
He comes from Watertown or Rome, 
Some place near the big river. 
Got all shot up as you lads know 
Then volplaned forty miles or so 
Unconscious ! Now that bunk won't go 
About a "wise old flivver." 

I saw him come at ten o'clock 
A full-speed nose-dive, like a rock. 
But landed sweet, no jar or shock — 

[21 ] 



You get that, mechanicians ! 
He says he fainted past their line, 
His watch exactly half -past nine — 
Now who brought home this pal o' mine? 
Well, I have my suspicions. 

Don't hand me that subconscious stuff; 
I'm not religious, half enough; 
But you can note this on your cuff: 
It is a Higher Power 
Than gasoline that drives a plane 
And brings limp airmen home again 
Through fog and sleet and hurricane 
A hundred miles an hour! 

I know God makes his presence felt 
To birdmen up in the moon-belt, 
Or Jim would be dead as a smelt ! 
And now, that tough young geezer 
Admits he always seemed to feel 
Some Spirit hand was on his wheel; 
If that kid doesn't learn to kneel 
I'll bang him on the beezer. 



I 22] 



HIS STAR 

We laughed when little Bill said "Dad, 

I'm going to the war!" 
But that's his star a-waving 

On the flag outside our door. 
It didn't seem conceivable 

That such a puny lad 
Could get into the Army, — 

But it shows the spunk he had. 
Yes, Bill was a persistent, 

Bull-headed little cuss, 
Though when the doctors turned him down 

He didn't make a fuss. 
Just said: "Me for the country. Dad, 

I'll come back fine as silk; 
I'll eat my weight in pot cheese 

And I'll swim in cream and milk." 
That night he came and told me 

Just before he went to bed, 
As near as he remembered, 

What the Army doctors said : 

f23l 



"They listened through a stethoscope 

To get some inside news 
And something in my heart told me 

That I was going to lose. 
They didn't mention leprosy, 

I'm glad I haven't that, 
But I've got everything else, Dad, 

To put me on the mat. 
I'm underweight and undersized; 

They say I have flat feet; 
I'm short a few bicuspids 

Used for fletcherizing meat. 
My right lung is as good as new, 

The other one's a wreck, 
But though the left one is not right 

The right one's left, by Heck! 
Then, infantile paralysis 

They say I've barely missed. 
But spinal meningitis may 

Soon put me on the list. 
My optic nerves do not project 

Clear pictures to my brain; 
My pericardium shows that 

I'm suffering from ptomaine. 
Then somewhere in my system 

There's a floating kidney loose 
And there's too much saly-something 
[24] 



In my pancreatic juice. 
They hinted at sarcoma 

Of the epithelium ; 
I don't know what it is but you'll 

Admit that's going some ! 
My respiration is too short ; 

My tonsil's are too long; 
My whole metabolism is 

AbsoJamlutely wrong! 
But why should a corpse worry ? 

I don't care now, what they said — 
Their autopsy distinctly shows 

I've been a long time dead!" 

Bill left next day for the old farm 

Owned by his doting aunts, — 
We haven't seen him since, although 

He wrote to us from France. 
We laughed when little Bill said, " Dad, 

I'm going to the war!" 
But that's his star a-waving 

On the flag outside our door. 
Yes, Bill was a persistent, 

Bull-headed little cuss,' — 
He writes he's now chief deck-hand 

On an eight-ton Army bus. 



25 



TIFFIN TALK 

"Here's a stray Tommy ! Hey there ! Arf a mo' ! 

Come chow with our bunch o' Marines ! 
Cast your lamps on this pile o' doughnuts; 

Take a slant at these Boston beans ! 
Sure, throw out your clutch, that's the idea, 

Slack off your bellyband. Eat ! 
But, if you're too tendfer for splinters, 

Grab a sandbag or two for a seat. 
What's new? Is All Highest complaining 

That the Allies are getting too rough ? 
We've got a hunch in this Corps, old top, 

That Jerry has near had enough ! 
What's the dope in the London papers, 

Do they think we've got Fritz on the run — 
Or, do they in spite of our land-grabs. 

Say our troubles have only begun ? " 

"Th' last news is what Conan Doyle says 
In the Standard, as I 'ave just read, — 

'E says Berlin shall be occupied 
By invadin' their country, *e said; 

[26 1 



An' when we all sits at the tible 

To decide what to do with th' 'Un, 
'Twill be th' sime blinkin' tible 

In Potsdam, where war wuz begun. 
'E says th' blighters 'as notions 

That they're sife on th' Rhine an' Mo- 
selle, — 
'E looks for sudden collapse, an' then — 

We'll drive th' pigs 'ome sure as 'ell!" 

' ' Attaboy ! That's the stuff, Tommy ! 

Conan Doyle's got the high-sign all right ; 
I like to blurt out my convictions 

And I tell you surrender's in sight ! 
Meanwhile just wetnurse that motto 

That goes with our crackerjack tanks, — 
' Trea:t 'em rough ! ' the rougher the better. 

And that goes with two million Yanks. 
Remember the Lusitania, 

And pray for the order to-night, — 
' No quarter from now for the Heinies, 

Fifty-fifty on Schrecklichkeit ! ' 
Then for a brick-wall atonement 

From Bill and his degenerates, — 
After giving them torch, sack, and pillage, — 

That's the verdict of me and my mates!" 

[27] 



THE FOREIGN LEGION 

Hats off to the Foreign Legion ! 

Your health, Sergeant Michael McWhite ! 
We picked your name out at random, 

As a rhyme co-efficient for "fight." 
The papers tell us you are Irish, 

A popular race in New York, 
Where we have more sons of old Ireland 

Than there are in your County of Cork ! 
We have a sneaking affection, Mike, 

For you and your prototype Pat, 
Whose coat tails we prefer to sidestep 

When it comes to the drop of the hat. 
We know your Serbian record, Sarge, 

And have followed you up ever since, 
By the stains on your musket and sabre, — 

Yotu* bloody, tell-tale finger prints! 
Death scoffers, with lives on your coat sleeves, 

Dedicated to beloved France; 
The same sangfroid in your devil-may-care 

Ancient order of thrilling romance ! 

[28 J 



All hail to the bold Foreign Legion, 

Their home any casual trench, 
With their English, Irish, Egyptians, 

Moroccans, Poles, Belgians, French; 
Americans too, — some immortal 

In the death that the Legionnaire seeks, — 
Brave Rockwell and Seeger, the poet, 

And Whitmore and Kelly and Weeks! 
Thrice welcome, scarred men of the Legion, 

Who honor our country to-day ; 
America reveres the uniform 

Of the Legion d'Honneur fourrager! 



29 



A DUGOUT SYMPOSIUM 

"Wi' ye haud yer tongue, Jock MacGreegor? 

Dinna cheep us anither wurd ; 
Hoots ! gie thon obleegin' Frenchmon 

A chanst fur his song tae be hurd. 
Ye're liker a wean nor a sojer, 

Fur yinst haud yer gab onyways, — 
Ye sudna mak' mock, nae doot lad 

He'll be singin' th' Marsylaise ! 
Toots, havers! guan wi' yer singin', 

Dinna fash yersel' mon, sing awa', 
Furbye there's naught tae be feart aboot, 

We're auld fechtin' freens one an' a*!" 

"Merci, vous etes tr^s aimable; 
Je veux vitement obliger 
Mais je chante toujours ce ravissant 
Overzaire: C'est une peche; ecoutez! 
Oui, li-bas! Oui, la-bas! 
Chantons-le, chantons-le, oui, la-bas! 
Que les Yanks arrivent, que les Yanks ar- 
rivent, 

[30] 



Les tambours battent un rataplan! 
Alors, Boche! Garde a toi! 
Chantons-le, chahtons-le, garde a toi ! 
Nous arrivons — nous sommes en route, 
Nous ne lacherons pas, nous tiendrons jus- 
qu'au bout!" 

"Scaramouch! da leetla Franchman 

He carry da frog in da throat ! 
Ah, Milano ! mia La Scala ! 

Dees Franchman he getta ma goat ! 
Nobody singa da moosic 

Like da greata tenori Caruse! 
Rigoletto! I cry, I go crazy, 

I maka da monk' an' da goose!" 

"Gam with yer blinkin' haspersions! 

Caruse! Oo th' 'ell is 'e? 
No doubt some fat organ-grinder 

From a dump down in Italy. 
Cheero, there, Frenchie! ye're rippin'! 

Though I don't know a damn word ye said, 
But I 'card that played back in Lunnon 

With th' Stars an' Stripes over'ead ! 
Gar blimey, that tune puts th' punch in 

Th' 'ole bally batterin'-ram; 
[31] 



That's th' marchin' song o* th' Yankees 
An' ye'll 'ear it soon in Potsdam. 

That singin' bunch is a fightin' bunch, — 
Yfer can't 'old 'em back o' th' tanks, — 

They're top-'ole troops; we're bloomin' proud 
To brigade with th' 'ard-'ittin' Yanks!" 



32] 



A LETTER FROM THE FRONT 

" I've studied hard since last I wrote 

For I haven't much else to do, 
Since I muffed that inshoot hand-grenade, 

But brush up my parleyvoo. 
So I wrestle verbs while loafing, Dan, 

On my first-base-hospital cot, — 
' Je parle, tu parle, il (or elle) parle, ' — 

Sounds kind o' highbrow, eh what ! 
Wait 'til I spill this at Luna Park, — 

' Combien ces saucissons ci ? ' 
They'll never know I'm asking what 

The price of hot dogs might be ! 
The table d'hote talk is quite easy, 

Not half as hard as it seems. 
Though I'll never get wise in nickels 

To quatre-vingt-dix-huit centimes! 
However, I'll get so Frenchified 

I'll scare folks when I get home, — 
A bonehead turned philologist 

With a bulging Gallicized dome! 
' The nut ! ' I can hear you saying, 

* What's started him on this hunch ? 
3 1 33] 



Near-English was always good enough 

For him and his pinochle bunch ! ' 
So I might as well 'fess up, old son, 

I've had sinking spells of late; 
I'm rubbing the Katies and Maggies 

And Honorias off my slate ! 
A slip of a girl here, started me 

At frisking the French grammaire, — 
One who could take me captive 

With a strand of her dusky hair; 
An orphan maid who teaches us French 

And what it means to be brave, — 
Not a man left of her kith and kin. 

Each one in a soldier's grave. 
Bless God, when I hear that Black Jack 

Is unter den linden tree 
I'll know that this oblate spheroid 

Is safe for democracy; 
Then back to the dear old U. S. A., 

But first I will tell Yvonne 
That I know a bank up in Harlem 

Where I have cached some mon. 
And if she will flicker an eyelash 

That I can interpret as ' Oui, ' 
I'll transplant my Picardy flower, — 

That's what we'd call 'fait accompli!'" 



[34 



A BIT OF BLUEST HEAVEN 

"T ake a chair, old comrade, — 

pull up and toast your feet ; 
H aven't had mine warm before 

since Forty-Second Street. 
E ver see a place like this? 

it's true what they all say, — 
Y ou'll find anointed ones of God 

at the Y. M. C. A. 
M any of our soldier wrecks 

have crawled here half insane,— 
C are and tender mothering 

put life in them again. 
A Iways, in the hearts and minds 

of all Himianity 
R ed triangles will symbolize 

a Christlike charity, 
E xplaining more to me than all 

the Saints and Prophets wrote; 
D ash it all ! it sure gives me 

a big Itimp in my throat. 
[35] 



T hrough war's satiirnalia 

God's flag has been unfurled 
R ight here ! where boundless pity 

brings redemption to the World. 
I t's a 'little bit of all right ' 

here in your easy chair 
A nd these cheery foster-Mothers 

grudge none their zealous care; 
N ever tiring, unfaltering 

though Inferno flares the sky, 
G iving meltinjg sympathy 

that almost makes you cry. 
L ord of love! I'll tell you what 

the Y HUT is to me,— 
E arth's bit of bluest Heaven 

in this Hell of butchery." 



(361 



THE RED CROSS ROLL CALL 

"Throw up your hands! all of you! 
No, it's not burglary, — 
We only want to count you in 
The Red Cross drive, you see. 
It's their Christmas roll call 
So, each Mother's son of you 
Sign up ! of course we also mean 
Each Mother's daughter, too. 
Just fancy what that blessed band 
Has done in la belle France ! 
Put down your names for Mercy's sake; 
Be thankful for the chance. 
Just a few weeks back it seemed 
A figment of the brain, — 
But here's a joyous Christmas come 
With ' peace on earth ' again ! 
No more to scan those cabled lists, 
Dread casualty notes. 
With fear that we would find his name 
Clutching our hearts and throats ! 
Cheero! let's get together; 
[37] 



Can we put you on the list? 
The amount is insignificant 
And never will be missed. 
Think of j^our priceless birthright 
And the golden days to come, — 
Join! and thank God you can say 
' Americanus sum! ' " 



I 38] 



THE FOURTH IN PARIS 

New York Herald, Sunday, Aug. i8, 1918. 

"You're right, Mate, that was some parade 
On Independence Day, 
Down President Wilson Avenue, 
Out Strasbourg Monimient way, 
When our blood-baptized youngsters 
Went marching through Paree, 
Back from those gun-nests, Bois Belleau 
And Chateau Thierry. 
Yes, we were the Exhibit A, 
The 'Teufel Hunden' Corps, 
And that town sure went bughouse 
As it never did before. 
Remember how we all were bombed 
From both sides of the street 
By those bewitching French girls 
Throwing flowers at oiu: feet ? 
And after all my dodging 
And ducking shrapnel shells 
I got hit plumb on the bugle 
[39] 



With a bunch of immortelles ! 
Leastwise, that's what I call them — 
Their fragrance haunts me yet ; 
I've pinned them near my wishbone 
For a good-luck amulet. 
Sure, I've got them! right here, Mate, 
Inside my flannel shirt — 
The first thing ever sent to me 
By any living skirt ! 
I saw her when she threw them — 
Threw me a shy kiss, too — 
I see her starry eyes right now 
In this slumgullion stew. 
It's natural for them to flirt. 
Come opportunity. 
But I marched with some classy kids, 
Why pick a hick like me? 
I must be fascinating 
Like the cobra, I'm afraid, 
For I have got the ugliest map 
Le bon Dieu ever made ! 
I hope the One Omnipotent 
Will change the human race — 
A man's no right to have a heart 
With an ingrowing face ! 
To me last Independence Day 
Was just a screen parade, 
[40] 



Dissolving in a 'close-up' 

Of my inconnue maid. 

I wonder if she'll ever know — 

That dainty, mocking lass — 

The hell she raised with your old pal, 

A sentimental ass!" 



I41I 



A WAYSIDE IN FRANCE 

New York Herald, Sunday, September 1,1918. 

"Come shake hands, my little peach blossom ; 

That's right, dear, climb up on my knee. 

This big Yankee soldier is lonesome — 

Ah, now we'll be friends, ma cherie. 

We won't understand one another, 

Your round eyes are telling me so, 

But the cling of your chubby fingers 

Is a language that all daddies know. 

When I caught a sight of your pigtails 

And those eyes of violet blue. 

It made me heart-hungry, ma petite, 

For I've a wee girl just like you. 

She lives 'way across the wide ocean. 

Out where the bald eagles nest. 

And she knows all the chipmunks and 

gophers 
At my shack out in the West." 

"Tu dis I'ouest! Est-ce ton pays? 
Veux-tu, quand tu iras chez-toi — 
[42] 



Maman est toujours a plenrer — 
Me retrouver mon soldat Papa ? 
II etait avec sa batterie 
Pres des Anglais la, en campagne, 
Mais Papa est alle dans I'ouest, 
Des Anglais disaient a Maman. 
Alors, Maman sera heureuse 
Et, tu vois elle ne pleurera plus; 
Je veux te donner un baiser, — 
Merci! Tu es si bon pour nous ! " 

" There she goes! She told me her secret, 
Kissed me and then flew away, — 
Say, Poilu ! you savez some English, 
Now what did that little tot say?" 

"She say Engleeshman tol' her Mama 
Zat her soldat Papa eez gone West ! 
You said West, bien! zen you live zaire. 
So she make you her leetle request, 
Zat you find heem in your countree 
So her Mama no more she weel cry ; 
Zen she thank you an' kees you, si joyeuse, — 
Pauvre mignonne, she think you weel try!" 



43 



MACARTHUR OF THE GORDONS 

New York Herald, Wednesday, October 30, 191 8. 

"Hey, Sergeant, I just met a Kiltie — 
By Gee I they grow bigger than whales — 
This one six-five in his holeproofs 
And he'd bust any Fairbanks scales ! 
He left footprints in the roadway 
Like a big he-elephant's spoor 
And the heather that grew on his knee joints 
Would stuff a fair sized ostermoor. 
He'd a hand like a bunch o' bananas, 
As red as his scrawny wrist 
And when I shook hands with him later 
He cracked every bone in my fist ! 
I saw the braw Hielander coming, — 
Bonnet and plaids and a' that. 
And I thought I'd flag wee MacGreegor 
For a smoke and a bit of a chat. 
So I called, ' Whoa there, Caledonia ! 
Back pedal, let's chin for a spell; 
I'm Private McGrath, of the Rainbows; 
What's your name, little lady from hell?' 
I 44] 



I certainly felt like a sawed-off 
Looking up at that haggis-fed, 
Who proved to be Arthur MacArthur, 
Of the Gordons, I think he said. 
I couldn't dope his dialect Sarge, 
But just write this down in your book — 
If he ever goes into vaudeville 
They'll give Harry Lauder the hook ! 
I couldn't get much of his prattle. 
Although I tried pretty hard. 
For the burr on his tongue was thicker 
Than the cooties in my back-yard. 
I slipped him a Pittsburg stogie, 
The first one, I think, he had seen. 
Then he joyfully smashed my fingers 
Fading in a tobacco-smoke screen. 
I know he's a worthy descendant 
Of a hardy old sheep stealing line. 
The kind that will charge the ' blazing gates ' 
If he hears the old bagpipes whine! 
I hope I will meet him again, soon, 
On this cuppy fair-green somewhere; 
I've got a present to give him 
That once nearly gassed me for fair ! 
It's that box of smokes Sis sent me — 
I sure love to try and please — 
Those black Porto Rico man killers 
[45] 



All spotted with skin disease. 
He'll eat 'em ! Oh, he's a blast furnace, 
His forced draft is something to see ; 
A nicotine hound, that's what he is — 
I've seen him smoke — take it from me! 
Nice kid ! I hope he gets home safe, 
Though he's such a Goliath mark. 
It would be as easy to snipe him 
As the hippo in Central Park. 
I've thought of his little 'mither' — 
Their meeting ! You get what I mean. 
After four years talking her baby talk 
In her dreams to her little wean 
And planning the old plaid apron 
Would make him a nice suit of clothes ;- 
No stepladder's needed in dreamland 
To wipe her wee duckie doo's nose!" 



[46] 



LES BLESSES 

From The American Golfer, December, 19 17 (revised). 

"When you're ridin' your war-'obbies 

Keep an eye out for a bloke 

Oos been trimmed close to th' knee-joint, 

Says 'e comes from Roanoke. 

Strike me balmy 'es a cuckoo 

An' perlite as any swell 

But these 'Varginia' specimens 

Are hobstinate as 'ell ! 

" If you'll 'old your gab I'll tell you 
While we're munchin' of our chow 
'Ow 'e smashed our bloomin* idols, 
Me an' Pierre's, this is 'ow: 
It 'appened when Pierre an' me 
Just like two little boys 
Wuz a-knockin' out th' sawdust 
From each others bally toys. 
[47I 



" For me an' Pierre wuz wranglin', 

Our wheel-chairs in a line 

Where Marcel the nurse 'ad took us 

For a dose o' French sunshine. 

'Twuz in a swell toff's garden 

Near th' Orspital Chatoo 

Where they brought us lousy beggars 

When th' Surgeon's job wuz through. 

" My room-mate Pierre sat near me 

An' 'es 'ard to understand 

But 'e sputtered broken English 

Wavin' of 'is only 'and. 

Once more 'e wuz a-ravin' 

Of Petain an' Joffer. Gawd ! 

'Til I squelched 'im good an' proper 

With my 'Aig an' Byng an' Maude ! 

" We wuz at it 'ot 'an 'eavy 
'E for 'is an' me for mine, — 
One nipper Yorkshire Rifles 
T'other, Batterie eighty-nine. 
Jus' then we 'card a gentle laugh 
Which made us look around, — 
There sat a Sammy near us 
With 'is slouch-'at on the ground. 
US] 



" A lanky, pale young blessy 

"^ ^ith a shock o' tawny 'air 

Smwin' where th' shrapnel combed it,— 

An' 'e'd left a leg somewhere. 

'Is ieyes, deep-set from fever 

'Ad a grayish look o' steel 

Y^t they twinkled kind an' friendly, — 

Sort o' comradeship appeal. 

" 'i^ laughed, then lit a cigarette, 

Louisey Ann perique 

An' in'aled a couple lungfuls 

As 'e started in to speak : 

' I shore doan want to butt in 

On yo' pow-wow, Gentlemen 

But I've had a right-smart earful 

Of yo' fighting supermen ! 

" 'I've been waiting, standing pat here 
With a straight flush all the while 
And as it's my bet, table stakes, 
I think I'll bet my pile. 
The fighting man / cheer for 
Has U. S. A. on his grip; 
His rough-necks are two-gun men 
And they shoot from either hip. 
4 [49] 



" ' I was with him on the border 
Where they drink their pulque neat 
And he shore can use my carcass 
When he wants to wipe his feet. 
No offense, my fellow-cripples 
But if I may be so bold 
I reckon when God made Pershing 
He just natchelly broke the mould!' " 



50 



SERGEANT BROWN 

July 1 8th — After killing or capturing the crews of 
four machine guns and raking a Boche-fiUed trench 
with his automatic rifle, Sergeant J. F. Brown walked 
into American Headquarters late yesterday with 159 
prisoners. "I am sorry, Sir, that I was unable to bring 
in all I had," he said in reporting, "but four of the 
wounded died on me." 

A POOR excuse! we think you would 

Have gotten your just due 
If you had suffocated when 

Those Heinies died on you. 
If you had not been careless 

With your automatic gun 
You could have goose-stepped to the rear 

With every cursed one! 
Are you a spineless weakling 

And to discipline so slack 
That you couldn't drive a flock o' Huns 

And tote four on your back? 
How do we know there were four more ? 

Your word's of no account, — 
[51] 



You should have lugged them in somehow, 

To verify the count. 
When the war is over, Sarge, 

And back you finally come, 
Don't say in telling your exploit 

"I think that's going some!" 
There's no extenuation 

In that kind of specious bunk 
E'en though you are round-shouldered 

From wearing medal junk. 
They'll give you all that's coming 

To you in your home town, — 
We mean the whole damvillage, 

Serves you right too, Sergeant Brown. 



52 



NENETTE AND RINTINTIN 



"Your letters are the jolliest 
That reach this salient ; 
Cheerios to buck me up 
When, feeling like a lonesome pup 
I'm wondering if a hemlock-cup 
Would not be heaven sent 
For my nostalgic blues, — 
Then come your billets-doux ! 



" I know their subtle fragrance. 
That intangible perfiune; 
It is the hair, the hands, the eyes 
In dreams I nightly visualize 
Of one I'll always idolize, 
Who dissipates my gloom 
By writing funny stuff, — 
Oh Mumsy, what a bluff! 
[53] 



" I know if I could see you 
When you're writing to your son, 
Your hands are ice, your heart is lead. 
You know I'm wounded, gassed or dead. 
Then headache takes you off to bed 
The letter just begun; 

But first a little prayer 

For 'Juney' over there. 

' ' Our men here wonder at the steel 

That's in the gentler sex. 

They've shown the world their women's 

might 
With faces calm, serene and bright, 
Heart-riven with the hellish blight, 
This swirling flame-vortex 

That makes a shambles here 

Where loved ones disappear. 

" But Fm safe; I wear amulets! 
I'm bomb-proof now inside; 
I smoke and sing on night patrol, 
The parapet's my daily stroll; 
Snipe on, you Boche ! no bullet hole 
Can ventilate my hide 

Thanks to wee maid and man, — 

Nenette and Rintintin ! 
I 54] 



" Henceforth back on my bayonet 

Dead Huns I'll daily bring; 

These worsted, good-luck Belgian twins 

Protect the wearers' precious skins, 

I cannot even bark my shins; 

Oh death, where is thy sting? 

Don't worry about me, — 

I'm Harveyized, you see!" 



I 55) 



BASTILLE DAY, JULY 14, 191 8 

Fifth Avenue and 40th Street, New York. 



VIVE LA FRANCE! 

SOLDATS ET MARINS 

SOYEZ LES BIENVENUS 

UN DINER DE POULET 

AVEC LES COMPLIMENTS 

DE LA MAISON 



This chalked-up blackboard caught my eye 
As I was slowly sauntering by; 
I stopped to read and rest my legs 
And thought I savored ham and eggs. 
It was the witching "ham and" hour 
In that gastronomic bower. 
I peeked within, where waiter-girls 
In Canteen caps and cutey curls 
[56I 



Were serving tables, rows on rows, — 
Dear volunteering twinkletoes ! 
The blackboard proved it was not chancs 
That filled the room with boys from France 
As they knew it was graft diner 
And gorged themselves with free poulet. 
Two sailor lads who'd had their fill 
Came out, first settling up their bill, — 
U. S. Marines, — a husky pair 
Who'd eaten through the bill-of-fare. 
They stood and talked not far from me; 
Note my short-hand proficiency. 
Said Bill: "No, Mate, we got no bleats 
Agin that line o' Canteen eats. 
ByCripes! It made me lick my paw, 
But I can't help a-feelin' sore 
To see them Frenchies full o' beans 
An' not a nickel in their jeans ! 
That Cop there, wised that Froggie bunch 
An' pointed in to the free-lunch; 
He pushed 'em to that blackboard there 
An' then they beat it in for fair ! 
An' all because this is the day 
When some ol' booby-hatch, they say. 
Fell down out there in gay Paree 
Which means we fill their faces free ! 
If our crew ever gets to France 
[57] 



We'll frisk one o' their resterants 
And yell for 'em to fill our plates 
With rooster-meat for all our mates 
An' we won't cough a measly sou, — 
Hell ! Libby prison fell down too ! " 



(58 1 



WAR DOGS 

In a deserted village sat 
Our weary, war-worn bunch, 
Near a shell-torn Chateau 
Where we'd halted for our lunch. 

Each one telling how he felt 
In his first "zero" hour, — 
All except the sphinx-like 
Leatherneck we called "old sour." 

He lay prone upon his back 
Apart from all the rest. 
Eyes in the clouds, his fingers locked 
Across his massive chest. 

He was a giant bearcat, 
A gloomy, tongue-tied cuss 
Who'd talk to birds and animals 
But wouldn't talk to us. 
I 59 J 



He was an ugly fighter too, 
The best I've ever met 
For I've waded through the welter 
From his mvirderous bayonet. 

Well, as we smoked and chatted 
We were suddenly aware 
That a maimed, skulking, starving dog 
Appeared from God knows where. 

We called and coaxed and whistled 
But he crouched, alert to run. 
Mistrustful of a uniform, — 
He'd met the treacherous Hun! 

A sword-thrust had gashed his back, 

One leg off at the knee, — 

A merry jest of kultur 

That's the way it looked to me. 

Just then we heard "old sour" 
Crooning softly to the pup. 
It wasn't that we heard him speak 
That made us all look up ; 

His gentle, sympathetic voice 
Amazed us, I confess, 
With its tender note of pity, — 
Almost like a caress. 

f 60] 



"Be friends, poor little blesse, 
Oh, pas Anglais! I forget 
That you don't speak the language 
Of my dog in Joliet. 

" So, viens ici pauvre p'tit chien, 
Je suis ton bon ami, 
Tu as tres faim, j'en suis certain, 
Bien, manges done ici! 

" Prends vite mon dejeuner, 

Le voila ! poor old chap, — 

Bless God your faith in man's restored 

Here in your buddy's lap." 

There was the dog up in his arms 
His tail wig-wagging joy 
While "old sour" fed the starveling. 
Lunch meant for a doughboy. 

"Get this!" said he turning 'round 
"Here is man's truest friend, — 
Faithful, trustful, loyal 
And devoted to the end. 

" You may be homeless, friendless, — 
Not a red cent to your name 
But your dog not being human 
Will still love you just the same. 
r6i 1 



" No human being cared a hoot 
When I left my home town 
But I can see two agonized 
Imploring eyes of brown. 

" He's waiting at the Station now 
For me to reappear 

And they'll find him dead there, waiting, 
If I go West from here!" 



[62 



WHY WORRY? 

Von Arnim, Von Quast and Von Buelow, 

Von Marwitz, Von Huteir, Von Bohm; 

Generals sent by the Kaiser 

To bring all the bacon home 

But McGinnis, McCabe and McSweeny, 

McManus, McCann and McCall 

Are there with the "fighting Sixty-ninth" 

To give them the scraps, — that's all! 



[63 I 



CCEUR DE LION 
Darkest days of 191 7 

He licks his bleeding wounds as he lies 

The British Lion at bay ! 
A lurid gleam in his bloodshot eyes 
The fighting spirit that never dies 
In Albion's breed he typifies 

Ware of the coming day ! 
Deep in his throat an ominous roar 

Portent to Attila's crew- 
Ware the sweep of his mighty paw 
Ware the crunch of his massive jaw 
Giant ally in Liberty's war 

Dauntless, steadfast and true! 



64 



HOMEWARD BOUND 

"It's daybreak Bill, let's tumble out, 
We've had beaucoup of sleep. 
This boat must be in sight of land 
I think I'll take a peep. 

"Oh boy! here's God's own country! 
Oh, Glory be, just look 
We're nosing up the channel. Bill, 
We've just passed Sandy Hook. 

" Good morrow Barren Island! Gee, 
You look sweet as a rose 
Although you used to lacerate 
The Knickerbocker nose. 

"And there's old Staten Island, 
Panorama for sore eyes ! 
It's Home and Mother now, Bill, 
Though hard to realize. 
5 1 65] 



" La-bas matey, is Hoboken, 
Ding ding you am-bu-lance ! 
Come get your cootie-cootie 
Little derelicts from France ! 

" Back there's dear old Manhattan 
Where my best girl waits for me, — 
I'm sidestepping all others 
For that blonde affinity. 

" She's the one I raved of 

When I got my ether bun 

For when you think you're croaking, Bill, 

You'll find there's only one!" 

"Hell's bells! you're always bragging 
Of the girls who love you so ! 
You gave us all an earache 
With that spiel at Bois Belleau. 

" If you hadn't got me when 
I crumpled on the wire 
I'd feel like bashing in the face 
That all your dames admire. 

' ' You had your nerve too, when you brought 
Me back to Thierry, — 
You asked me who to notify 
If things went bad for me 
[66] 



" And when I said I had a girl, 
A real tip-topper here, 
You muttered ' poor old pie-face Bill, 
He's wandering. Doc, I fear!* 

" You thought of course a map like mine 
Made me a hopeless case ; 
You didn't give a Chinaman's chance 
To my denatured face ! 

"But you thought wrong, you blighter 
For you'll see her presently; 
She's waiting at the same old spot 
To keep her tryst with me. 

" She doesn't mind my face at all. 
Just sees my khaki kit, — 
That's what won her affections 
Starting out to do my bit. 

" Look! there she is! my Bronze Girl! 
On Bedloe's Isle you see, — 
Je suis heureux de vous revoir, 
C'est moi, BILL! ma cherie! " 



[67I 



WITH THE ALLIES 

From The American Golfer, November, 19 14. 

Does latent love of powder smoke 
Come from heredity ? 
If so, the family itch for war 
Has recrudesced in me. 

They say most of my forebears 
Had a shoulder for a gun ; 
Some went with Scott to Mexico, 
Some fought at Lexington. 

At Waterloo they fought the French; 
Time's whirligig finds me 
In step with the "red trousers" 
In bonne camaraderie. 

My father was with Sherman 
Where he heard the rebel yell ; 
He also heard his General say 
He reckoned war is hell ! 

[68] 



And judging from the shambles here 
I think he was quite right, 
Though he ne'er saw the bloodless death 
From fumes of turpinite. 

Yea ! he was with the Sherman troops 
When they marched to the sea, — 
I guess his marching blood has made 
A vagabond of me. 

As a mere boy I disappeared 
From "little old New York,"— 
They brought me back from Frisco 
For a serious family talk. 

Then College, where perched on the mound 

I spent my student days 

To get the "stuff" upon the ball 

For inshoot fadeaways. 

Then I went on a ranch out West 
To punch the maverick 
But soon a restless fit came on, 
I knew I couldn't stick. 

From there to Catalina isle 

For super-dreadnought fish, 

Then back from Walla Walla, Wash., 

To Escanaba, Mich. 

[69] 



I've done a turn in vaudeville, 
I've run a trolley car, 
I've braked upon the B. & O. 
And dug in Panama. 

In Winnipeg I froze my feet ; 
Was sunstruck in Fort Wayne, — 
Fell overboard and nearly drowned 
Off Kennebunkport, Maine. 

I joined a Kansas cyclone once, 
A perfectly good blow — 
It blew most of Topeka 
Nearly over to Saint Jo. 

It blew me a full brassie 
And a mashie pitch or two 
Until a stone wall stymied me, — 
I couldn't quite get through. 

I had to leave the highway 
When I got to Muskogee, 
That stone wall having left me 
"Casual water" on the knee. 

The "wanderlust" is just a lofty 
Dilettante term 
To indicate the presence 
Of the common hobo germ. 
[70] 



When this great cataclysm broke 
I was in Aberdeen; 
I'd heard the ominous rumblings 
Of a war that I'd foreseen. 

I joined the troops at Liverpool 
Whence my ancestors came, — 
Some impulse I could not resist 
Just pulled me in the game. 

So here I am as foreordained, 

A nomad ne'er-do-well 

Who scribbles this while out of work 

Due to a piece of shell. 

Why not? Some Yankee poet 
From his wallow in a trench 
May get his V. C. from the hands 
Of Kitchener or French ! 

One's not so brave to get shot up 
Or blown to bits, or worse, 
But it surely takes an iron nerve 
To write my kind of verse ; 

Still, fair-haired Sergeant Temple says: 
"It's ripping, dear old boy!" 
Come roars of their approval 
From MacTavish and Molloy; 
[71] 



Though Greek to my French comrades 
They cry "Mondoo, c'est tr^s bung!" 
The rest of the world's critics 
Can all go to, well, — get hung! 

L'ENVOr 

Hark ! cries of many nations 

With their backs against the wall! 

Are you listening 'cross the ocean? 

That's the English bugle call! 

A cheer, then Tipperary, 

In they go to jaws of hell, 

A nation's flower gasping 

Side by side there as they fell. 

Are you murmuring my kinsmen 

With responsive clutch at heart 

At the fate which keeps the Anglo-Saxon 

Brotherhood apart? 

Shall the ages see the Stars and Stripes 

With Union Jack unflung, 

A life and death alliance 

Among those who speak our tongue? 

Would polyglots acclaim it as 

World Strife forever hushed, 

A covenant that monstrous 

Militarism is crushed? 



Your silent men are thinking 

Through their stern neutrality; 

Are they pondering the empty phrase 

Of "hands across the sea"? 

In dreamland were they marching 

With the British lads who fell 

In fighting for "a scrap of paper"? 

History will tell ! 



[73] 



SOMEWHERE 

MacLaren of the Seaf orths ! 
A visage leonine ; 
Drum-fire spit of machine guns, 
A decimated line. 

MacLaren of the Seaf orths ! 
The sands are running low; 
Forebodings of a stricken lass 
Where bonnie blue-bells blow. 

MacLaren of the Seaf orths! 
With premonition true, 
Your trenchmates gone of yester-eve 
Are beckoning to you. 

MacLaren of the Seaforths ! 
Objective just ahead; 
The flame-blighted shell-scarred knoll 
Its slopes o'erstrewn with dead. 
[74] 



MacLaren of the Seaforths ! 
Patter of leaden rain; 
A choking gasp, a crumpled form, 
A quick surcease from pain. 

MacLaren of the Seaforths ! 

A body stiff and stark 

Where man's death-dealing messenger 

Had found its giant mark. 

A chaplain's requiescat, 

A grave in foreign mold 

Neath poppy blooms nid-nodding, — 

The story's oft been told. 

Somewhere in war's grim record, 
Just one more valiant part ; 
Somewhere in the bleak Highlands, 
Just one more broken heart. 



75 



MY PAL FRANCOIS 

Artilleur, Douzieme Batterie 

"Eez eet good-bye zen, aujourd'hui? 
You leave wiz your artillerie 
For go back to Etats Unis ! 
Sacr^ nom! il est bien loin d'ici. 

" My heart eez sad; so now shak' ban's 
Here by my ol' soixante-quinze; 
Cessez le feu ! have spoil our plans 
For mak' ragout of allemands. 

*' Long time we boce have serve ze guns 
For send ze foodstuff to ze Huns; 
C'est vrai we feed zem tons an' tons 
Franco-Am^ricain lyddite buns. 

" Eet was my life! I am like you, 
We now have nozzing left to do, 
Ze flaming orchestra eez through, — 
C'est dommage, il n'y en a plus. 
[76] 



" I wanted tak' you a Paris 
For one, — qu' est-ce que c'est, — beeg spree! 
Ce n'etait pas ma faute you see, — 
Comprenez-vous ce que je dis? 

' ' I have ze horreur of zis day 
When you tell me you gone away. 
Eet eez adieu! oui, je le sais, 
J 'en suis extr^mement fache. 

" I would not leave you, au contraire, 
Eef we been fightin' overzaire, — 
I send for my charmante sistaire 
For keep ze house, apres la guerre. 

"Who say, fren'ship like you an' me 
C'est passe ou il est fini ! 
Some day bien sur your eyes weel see 
Moi, Frangois! vraiment je vous suis. 

" I have resolve de tout mon coeur 
J'irai avec ma jolie soeur; 
I tak' my sistaire parce que 
Mebbee you fall in love wiz her. 

' ' Zen peut etre, my dream come true 
Zat my sweet Jeanne she marry you, 
Zen when night come an' work eez through 
I have ze chair an' pipe chez-vous!" 
[77] 



THE SMOKED YANKEES 

"Yassir! I got dose wound-stripes 
In foreign jography 
With the Three Hundred Sixty-ninth 
or Fifteenth Infantry. 

" I got my honor' ble discharge 
Account o' my right wing; 
Dat hand was blown clean off de map 
With my gold token-ring. 

"Jus' came back on de Celtic, Boss, 
An' now our Tenderloin — 
Meanin* ol' Sixth Avenoo — 
Will soon eat up my coin. 

" Den back to my ol' job again, 
A hash house, servin' eats, — 
Dat busts my army pride to go 
Back yellin' 'brown de wheats!' 
[78] 



"An' once yo' snuff dat mustard 
From de gas dat skins yo' raw 
Yo' can't smear no ham sandwiches 
With dat compound no mo' 

"An' with no C. O. near me 
An' a cleaver 'round somewhere 
One order for a Hamburg steak 
Might send me to th' chair ! 

" I guess I'll try to get a job 
At some Fifth Avenoo shop 
To wear a gold-lace uniform, — 
A limousine bell-hop, 

" Den some day Colonel Hay ward 
Maybe come a-strollin' by 
An' my left-hand salute will catch 
His military eye. 

"Maybe he'll stop, stretch out his hand 
An' say, 'Boy, put it there! 
Yo're one o' my Smoked Yankees, 
I can tell 'em anywhere! 

" ' I hate to see yo' dolled up 
In a Admiral's uniform 
But presume yo' needs th' money 
Fo' po'k chops an' somethin' warm. 
[79I 



" 'O I place yo' now, — Mose Washington, 
Corporal, Company B, — 
I pinned dat medal on yo' 
Fo' dat intrepidity ! 

" ' Yo' black hide's perforated 
Like a ol' tin pepper-box 
Fo' yo're de gluttonest coon dat ever 
Stood in army socks ! 

" ' Shrapnel, bayonet, trench-grenades 
An' sprayed with liquid fire, — 
Yo' got mo' lives dan a black cat, 
Yo' have, or I'm a liar! 

'"No white man in de army, Mose, 
Has fought mo' gallantly; 
I never had a braver nigger 
Fightin' under me ! ' 



" Den Boss, my cup o' pipe-dreams 
Will be full up to de brim; 
He's my ol' Colonel, fo' two bits 
I'd go to hell fo' him!" 



80 



"SMILES" 

At Twenty-seventh Headquarters 
A goggled youth dubbed "Smiles" 
Had streaked a motorcycle 
Over leagues of lumpy miles 

Doing dispatch-riding 
Back and forth for the C Os, 
Not a soporific job 
As every soldier knows. 

Sunlight, moonlight, rain or shine 
They'd see him whizzing by 
Dodging shells and taking all 
Pup-craters on the fly. 

He brought along his cheery smile 
So all the doughboys say, 
From Spartanburg, where he picked up 
His fitting sobriquet. 
6 I8i] 



He'd picked up almost everything 
They pick up in a trench 
From live-stock to a knowledge 
Of extraordinary French 

Which on occasions he would air 
(The French) quite willingly 
To puzzle the long-suffering 
Gallic peasantry. 

With good-humored complaisance 
He'd embrace the frequent chance 
To show the friendly poilus 
He was quite at home in France. 

One night, one of his Company 
Brought "Smiles" a fountain-pen 
And said, "Corp, you always write 
The love notes for us men. 

" I just got this here postcard, — 
I think it's from my best, — 
See, here she signs it ' Fifi, ' 
That's the peach I met in Brest. 

"Naw! I can't read the damn thing. 
Please de-code the stuff for me 
And cop out a swell answer 
Like a hunk o' poetry. 

[82] 



" You're hell on French an' I don't know 

A word except ' bebe ! ' 

It's gotta be in French or she 

Won't get a word I say. 

"Just hand her gobs o' Hoola stuff, — 
Tobasco Coochie Coo, — 
An' I'll go polish an' oil up 
Your motor-bike for you." 

Now "Smiles" had missed tobacco 
And had evidence to show 
That Smith was quite light-fingered, — 
Now for a quid pro quo. 

So this is what the mail bag took 
Next morning back to Brest 
From a near-Academician 
At Private Smith's request: 

" Je suis surpris de recevoir 
Une chaud poste cart de vous. 
Vous-avez beaucoup de la nerve ! 
Ne plus, Fifi, ne plus ! 

"Vous etes extremement mechante, 
Je vous passez ze mitt ; 
Sacrebleu ! sans introduction 
Vouz-avez moi ecrit! 
[83] 



"Ou avez-vous fait mon 
Connaisance, Fifi dear? 
Je ne puis pas remember 
Any Fifis ! C'est a rire ! 

" Vous-avez cinquinte ans n'est pas? 
Oui Fifi, je le sais; 
J'aime toujours la dix-sept ans, — 
Adieu done ! C'est assez ! 

"N'essayez pas de vamp me, 

Je n'ai pas any wad; 

Vous avez faim seulment pour coin, — 

Vous me rendez malade!" 

Fifi's answer was one word 

And hence, exceeding terse 

But "Smiles" explained to Private Smith 

It meant she loved his verse 

And also that she loved him: 
Now he could carry on, — 
He had her shy avowal 
In the magic word "Cochon!" 

But later Private Smith said "Corp, 
I know what that word means. 
You're a helluva French scholar ! 
You sure have spilled the beans ! 
[84] 



"To scare the chickens seems to be 
A motorcyclist's joke 
But, — I'll call it square, old kill-joy 
If you've got somethin' to smoke!" 



[85] 



ARE WE DOWNHEARTED? 

"Where do we go from here, boys? 
Was the song we sang over in France 
When we'd mopped them up with the 

bayonet 
And keen for a further advance. 

"Where do we go from here, boys 
Now we're back home from overseas? 
Do we brigade with the 'submerged tenth' 
When we're out at elbows and knees? 

"Where do we go from here, boys 
And where does the trail now lead ? 
Back to the echoing slough of despond, — 
'We've got all the hands we need!' 

" Where do we go from here, boys 
Now that housework is getting pass^ 
And the new girl-man is elbowing us 
Into the cold consomme? 
[86 1 



" Where do we go from here, boys? 
We might get a maid's job, we might. 
Dusting and sweeping and purling betimes 
And putting the cat out at night. 

"I'm damned if I know where to go, bo3'^s, 
To bring home some kale for my shack ; 
It looks like a bench in the park, boys 
For thousands of us who came back. 

" I knew dead sure where I'd go, boys, — 
Straight West in a spatter of blood, — 
If the shell that dropped in my dugout 
Hadn't turned out to be a dud 

" But if this is what I came home for, 
The bread-line up there on Broadway, 
I'm sorry that dud wasn't functioning 
When it paid me a visit that day." 



87 



THE GAP IN THE LINE 

We saw her there in the cheering throng, 
A frail little Mother, careworn and gray, 
When our young veterans marched along 
Under the Victory Arch that day. 
Ashes of hope in her burnt-out eyes, 
Lips supplicating in fervent prayer, 
Invoking someone in spectral guise 
To march with the living heroes there. 
Look ! little Mother, the wraith-like come ! 
Who beckons there from the Spirit row 
On noiseless feet to the beat of the drum ? 
Your little nursling of long ago ! 
Shoulder to shoulder with ghostly tread, — 
Vapor-like passing of phantom ships, — 
Hark! "Mother mine, we are the dead!" 
A smile for her on his pallid lips. 
Sayest thou He would not beatify 
This swooning Mother, — inanimate clod? 
Sceptics, know ye the wherefore and why 
Of the inscrutable acts of God ? 



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